


to dream with regret

by rathalos



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Daedra Worship, Gen, this fic is just one huge dream sequence that i needed to get out of my system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathalos/pseuds/rathalos
Summary: First, there is betrayal: a summoning on the fifth of First Seed.Then, the price: one hundred seven days through the Dreamstride.(“If you wanted mercy,” Vaermina says—each slow word is a gasping dream, the wailing of a new nightmare, “you should have worshipped Stendarr.”)
Kudos: 4
Collections: Holiday TES Fanfic Fest!





	to dream with regret

**Author's Note:**

> i will warn you guys now: i had no beta AND i’ve never played any of vaermina’s quests, so you know… things might be a little rough
> 
> also i'm not sure how to tag this so i gave it an M rating just in case, but here are the warnings:
> 
>  **CW** — most of the stuff im listing is not super graphic and only lasts for a few sentences/a vague mention at most, but it might be triggering to someone so i wanted to play it safe: minor gore, brief depiction of the black sacrament, non-violent loss of limbs, suffocation. if i missed anything lmk
> 
> also the song is from one of the eso elsweyr bard songs, and all the ta'agra i used i just took straight off the ta'agra project website.

In life he kneels in front of Vaermina’s shrine, begging for mercy. In dreams he walks, as is her punishment.

_In life—_

Her statue looms over him. Her candles are lit. Her followers perform rituals in her name, poisoning the dreams of those who stray too near.

“Please. He did not mean to. He is sorry. He begs for Vaermina’s forgiveness, her mercy, if she wills it.”

“I don’t ask much of you, my Champion, truly. Often I am pleased by the mere memory of your service for me. Still, you find ways to test my limits.”

“Za’jhan-Dar—”

“If you wanted mercy,” Vaermina says—each slow word is a gasping dream, the wailing of a new nightmare, “you should have worshipped Stendarr.”

_In dreams—in life—_

He walks barefoot through freezing waters.

He is the skull, the bones, the flesh, the dagger piercing through his broken body—Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me.

He holds a rose in his hand. He holds a rose in his hand. He holds a rose in his hand.

He is lost. Someone calls to him, and he listens, and he runs. When he runs his legs come apart underneath him. He falls. He cannot run, but this would never stop him, so he drags himself by the arms. Someone calls to him.

He falls from the White-Gold tower. All cats land on their feet. Za’jhan-Dar lands on his back.

He is wolves, hunting in the dark.

He marches through the Dreamstride.

*

His mother’s song comes to him through the dead air, ringing true, tasting like copper in his mouth.

“Val Vijah Va Rhook, Baandari . . . ”

Za’jhan-Dar remembers those hazy nights in Bravil, more clearly than has in recent years. He, a kitten dressed in rags; she, a tired mother who Listened for sounds no one else could hear, passing him down the melodies of his ancestors.

The Baandari caravans, she sang, a line of Khajiit silhouetted against the sunset, sending their songs to the sky. They traveled across hilltop and marsh, desert and jungle, belting those proud melodies. All across Tamriel, all throughout time, until their muzzles grew grey and they climbed beyond the stars.

“Carrying our world in packs . . . ”

Za’jhan-Dar will not go to Llesw’er. He is already so far gone, deep within the folds of the Dreamstride, wandering aimlessly under the watchful eye of the Gifter.

He takes a step, and the stones underneath his feet are blood-slicked flesh, another and they are stone again, another and they are silent faces. He cannot hear his own footsteps.

“Val Vijah Va Rhook, Baandari . . . ”

There is still the song, pushing silence out of its way. He wants to follow it, but it comes from all directions. She taunts him, the Gifter. Punishes him for a misdeed. Za’jhan-Dar deserves it, he knows.

“Our kingdom on our backs . . . ”

*

Maybe she will let him go after he is finished turning the days. Time moves when his feet move, stops when they stop. Always there is a torment for him, a taunt, a memory pulled to the surface.

He is tired, so he closes his eyes. Like the turning of a wheel, light filters in from the top down, and he is in the Dreamstride.

*

He is surrounded by a thick white mist, warm to the touch.

“My dear Champion, what led you to call on my enemy?”

“He had a question.”

“What was your question?”

“He cannot remember.”

“Of course not. Do you still regret it?”

“Always. More and more so with every day he spends here.”

“Good.”

The mist is water, the water her words, snarled at him. Za’jhan-Dar drowns.

*

He stops his march to sleep under the low-hanging branches of an apple tree.

“You forget, as many often do, that my sphere is not limited to nightmares.”

Her voice comes to him suddenly, rolling through the air in thick, choking waves, crashing into his ears.

“But your realm is,” Za’jhan-Dar says. “He knows this.”

“For you, yes. It is. For others? It depends.”

The apple tree is a tower; its branches, bridges. He claws at his throat, suffocates on the scorching air of the Deadlands.

His mother must have suffered here, closing the gates. How he had despaired each time she had set him down and disappeared beyond those gaping maws of fire. She’d kept him safe every time, made sure he was swaddled in darkness, buried under protective wards, but the fear, the fear she would leave him and never come back, always persisted.

“Ayirra, the Hero of Kvatch. Tell me, did you ever resent her?”

“Vaermina . . . please,” he pleads, rasps.

His throat is dry, cracked. Fire eats him up from the inside out.

“You don’t visit her as often as you should.”

“This one knows. He knows. Please.”

“As do I. March forward, my Champion, into the next nightmare. Let this be your relief.”

He takes a step.

In front of him is a desk. On that desk is a simple scrying glass, rusted and brittle. He lifts it to his eye.

*

“You said you’d come back,” Eranil says. “It’s not too late. I’m still waiting. Come on, let’s go back to the good old days. You and me against the world.”

“His biggest failure,” Za’jhan-Dar sighs, voice cracking harshly in the middle. “Eranil, they caught you. We were just outside Chorrol. You forget again. So many times.”

“Ah . . . yeah. I’m sorry. My memory. It’s so fuzzy these days,” Eranil says. “Well—if it makes you feel any better, there’s nothing you could have done.”

“He knows,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

He has no more capacity for sadness, for anger—yes, he had cursed Vaermina for days on end, walking along winding paths, becoming lost in the dark—when all those emotions have washed away, it is always regret that is left.

“You are wrong. Your biggest failure was not allowing him to die,” Vaermina says. Eranil gasps once, a sharp, pained sound, and is gone. Now she walks beside him, her heavy hand resting on his shoulder. “It was betraying your oath to me.”

Za’jhan-Dar hums listlessly.

“You are beginning to give up?” Vaermina asks. “Somehow, I expected better from you.”

“How much time is left?” Za’jhan-Dar asks.

“A question!” Vaermina exclaims. “Now you begin to see.”

“He wishes to know . . . ”

“Sixty-six days,” Vaermina says. “Then you may return to me.”

“He does not understand.”

“That is not unexpected. I am asking for your continued service. You are my Champion, and I your mistress. Of course I would welcome you back into my worship,” Vaermina says. “It would be so easy. Only sixty-six days left.”

“Sixty-six days,” Za’jhan-Dar repeats. “Until he is bound to you once again.”

“Exactly so,” Vaermina confirms.

In the next moment she is gone, and the crushing weight on his shoulder is alleviated. He breathes, but the air is corrupted, and he dies.

*

_One . . . two . . . three . . ._

“Imagine if we actually managed to do this. Think of the gold. Gods, the _gold._ ”

“He must admit, he cannot help but to look forward to this. Worrying will be difficult after so many riches.”

“Got it in one.”

_Four . . . five . . . six . . ._

“Shit.”

“Eranil?”

“Someone saw me. Run, run, drop all the stuff, just get—”

_Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . ._

*

“Za’jhan, listen to your mother.”

“Chores this early? It’s so dark out! What could—”

“Not chores. This is serious. Something very, very bad has happened. Go find Bairasha. She will take care of you for a while. Mother must go as soon as she can. Before too long she will come back for you. And she is so sorry. Stay safe, ja’khajiit. Ari jer.”

*

_Thirty-two . . ._

Za’jhan-Dar cries.

*

When he walks, he is lost within the halls of Apocrypha. He calls for help, but no one comes. Of course no one comes.

He dies so many times—of course he dies, it’s what he’s here for, and it is a Seeker, then a Lurker, then he loses his balance—a Khajiit losing his balance, Baraisha would laugh herself sick—falls straight into the sludge, feels it eating away at him.

He comes back to walk. Always to walk. But he is meant to walk upon soft sands, not this hard ground which continually shifts under his feet, treacherous in every way. No. This is not his place.

*

_Fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . ._

*

Za’jhan-Dar opens his eyes. It takes him a moment to realize he is kneeling, a moment to realize he can smell the damp-fish-mud scent of Lake Poppad behind him, a moment for it to sink in that he is awake.

He nearly sobs from the relief of it, but the Dreamstride took all his tears away from him, so instead he presses his forehead to the ground, the grass, the midnight dew. After he has had his fill, he breathes, draws the sweet air into his lungs, stands on shaking legs.

“Was this one out of it for long?” he asks, directing the question towards the whispering cultists gathered in a loose half-circle around him.

“Three days,” Aymar says. “I admit, not even I envy you.”

“Of course not,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

“Well . . . none of us would mind if you went into town for a few days to rest,” Aymar says cautiously. “I can’t imagine what you did to earn her ire, but perhaps—yes, perhaps it’d be best to spend some time regaining your . . . mental faculties.”

Za’jhan-Dar casts his eyes in the direction of Cheydinhal. His breaths are still irregular. His heart feels as though it will leap out of his chest at any moment. There are bits of grass still sticking to his fingers from where he had tangled himself into the ground. His fur is starting to stand on end from the chill in the air.

“Maybe he will.”

*

The question: “How may Za’jhan-Dar be free from her service?”

The response: “It cannot be answered.”


End file.
